The Woman with the Voice
by Novum-Semita
Summary: When Brechtje awoke in the company of a Khajiit caravan with only a mysterious dagger and a head full of broken memories how will she begin to reconstruct her past? And who are these masked people who haunt her dreams? A world of promise and adventure awaits. Female Dovahkiin x Lydia
1. Prologue

What follows is the Tale of the Dragonborn, produced at the request of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Jarl of Whiterun and written by Danica Pure-Spring, Head Priestess of the Temple of Kynareth. This text was compiled from audiences with the Dragonborn herself and those who knew her well.

The wagon wheel jolted against a loose rock in the road, jerking the wagoner back into wakefulness. She scrubbed a hand over her tired face as she looked at the road ahead. It was a cold cloudless evening and frost was already beginning to adorn the tops of the crude fences and leafy undergrowth that lined the mud track. In the distance, rising over the trees, she could just make out the lofty edifice that was Dragonsreach. She reached over with one hand, fumbling with the leather straps of the satchel at her side. She lifted out a bottle of alto wine and uncorked it before taking a swig. She shivered, pulling her robes more tightly about her in a vain attempt to keep out the cold.

"How much further?" asked a voice from the cart behind her.

"Not much further, Malkir," she replied, "We should reach Whiterun before Masser rise."

"I certainly hope so, Brechtje," shivered Malkir, "This cold cuts into my skin with more ease than a steel dagger." Brecthje looked back at the old Breton. His beard was streaked with white and his once youthful blue eyes were now dulled by time and the turning of many winters.

"Skyrim never was famous for its mild weather," she replied wryly.

"And what I want to know is why you would wish to come here?" asked Malkir, "The trade alone is hardly worth the trip if you ask me." Brechtje said nothing but turned her gaze to the road ahead. Something glimmered on the horizon and she strained her eyes to try and make out what it was.

"You see it too," observed Malkir.

"What is it?" asked Brechtje.

"I don't know, these old eyes aren't what they used to be," replied Malkir, "But I don't like the look of it. We'd better make a detour. I'll let the other wagoners know." With that he disappeared from her side and made his way to the back of the wagon, signalling to the wagoner behind them. There were three wagons in all, each bound for Whiterun. Brechtje jerked the reigns, urging the horse off the road. It snorted, flattening its ears against its skull, perhaps sensing Brechtje's urgency. She looked back to the road and to her dismay the strange light had also changed direction.

As the light drew nearer it separated into three bright glowing spheres. The light cast by these floating orbs reflected off armor clad individuals on horeseback, each holding a bright orb of magelight in their oustretched hands.

"Uh-oh, looks like they want us to stop," Malkir said wryly, watching as the three riders lined up, neatly blocking their path.

"Halt," said the one at the forefront. His voice was deep and almost seemed to growl. Only his voice told anything about him for his face was obscured by a mask that appeared to be made from bone. Brechtje looked at Malkir for guidance.

"Keep moving," said Malkir, "I don't like the look of them." Brechtje urged the horse onwards, making to steer away from the strange riders. Brechtje shuddered, feelings of apprehension rising in her chest. One of them turned to meet her gaze and though she could not see his eyes she felt his cold stare. It seemed to see past her face, delving deep in her mind.

"It's her." He spoke quietly yet his voice seemed to carry more than it should. At this the other two riders focused on her.

"We know who you are," he continued, "And for that reason we cannot let you pass." He paused as though savouring the moment. "We've searched long and hard for you. It hasn't been easy I assure you."

"Who are you?" asked Brechtje, "And what do you want with me?" Malkir watched the exchange with surprise. How could these masked men know Brechtje? He'd seen that girl through most of her childhood and knew of no mention of people like this. Brechtje, it seemed, was equally surprised. The man ignored her questions.

"No need to burden a doomed mind with such information," he laughed sardonically. He raised his hand, sparks forming on his palm. Brechtje's eyes widened in fright as the light grew brighter. She raised her own hands and a turquoise haze surrounded her as she focused the ward spell. The rider let fly and the sparks arced through the air. The air around her crackled as the spell met the ward. A sound like breaking glass filled her ears as the ward shattered before her and she was thrown back off the wagon. With the first spell cast the other two riders moved into action, unleashing gushes of fire that engulfed the wagon. Smoke filled her nose and she coughed. The other wagoners were climbing out of the wagons. Some were drawing weapons and advancing on the riders while others were running off into the dark.

"Run Brechtje," yelled Malkir, "Get out of here!" But Brechtje didn't move. Her head still throbbed from where it had hit the ground and the whole scene seemed unreal, like a dream. "Don't just stand there like a damn fool," he shouted, "Move!" Another bolt of lightning hurtled past her, singing her as it grazed her cheek. The burst of pain brought her back to Nirn and she raced off, away from the wagons.

"Go after her," growled the lead rider, "Kill her. No excuses." The other two riders kicked their heels into their snorting mounts and set off in pursuit.

The cold night air engulfed her as she plunged through the undergrowth. She heard the thundering sound of the horse's hooves behind her and the crackle of spells in the air. She tried to cast another ward but her mind couldn't focus enough to solidify the turquoise haze. She ducked as a fireball soared overhead, setting one of the trees alight. Burning debris rained down on her as she passed beneath it, making for the open plains beyond. She heard a roaring sound which grew louder with each step. Her chest was burning as though on fire but she ignored it. The trees thinned and the land before her ended abruptly in a steep drop. The source of the roaring was revealed to be a waterfall and below her the water churned ominously.

"Looks like you've run out of places to run," sneered one of the riders, readying a fireball in his palm. The other produced a dagger which glinted coldly in the blood red glow of the setting sun. Brechtje took a step back and felt a rock come loose under her foot, skittering down the cliff. She watched it fall before returning her attention to the riders.

"Why not give in?" said the other, a dark elf by the sound of his voice, "At least then you can die peacefully." Brechtje looked this way and that but there was no escape. Except one. She looked over her shoulder again.

"Don't even think about it," said the dark elf. Brechtje touched the amulets at her neck.

"Divines, please protect me," she whispered. Then she turned and jumped. The fire ball whizzed past her as she began to fall. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her back and her body fell limp.


	2. The Newcomer

At first she felt nothing and her vision remained obscured by her eyelids. She could discern nothing of her surroundings save for the murmur of voices. Gradually she became aware that she was lying face down on what felt like fur. Tendrils of stinging pain began to creep along her back and she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut tighter. Suddenly the pain intensified as something was pressed against her back and she let out a gasp.

"Hush, lie still," said a voice. It was deep and husky but definitely feminine. She slowly opened her eyes and found herself lying on a deerskin rug. There was someone kneeling next to her. Whoever they were, she wore a beige dress with a red apron and a dagger gleamed at her side, reflecting the glow of the fire on its blade. Brechtje's gaze travelled up the figure, coming to rest on a pair of shining amber eyes, silhouetted against the red morning sky beyond the tent opening. She became aware that the object pressing against her back was a damp cloth and she winced as it dabbed at her back.

"Who are you?" she mumbled, as much to divert her mind from the pain as to find out who her rescuer was.

"My name is Ja'ravi," replied the Khajiit woman. She removed the cloth and unrolled a length of bandage material from the basket at her side and began winding it around Brechtje's torso, "And who are you?" Brechtje thought for a moment and frowned. Who was she? She cast her mind back and found little. She remembered fire, then cold wind and finally a pain in her back. No, there was more.

"Run Brechtje," yelled a voice, "Get out of here. Don't just stand there like a damn fool. Move!" Then the voice was gone. Brechtje. That must be who she was. Yes, she remembered now.

"My name's Brechtje," she replied at length, "Where am I? And how did I get here?"

"You are in our camp near the River White just East of Whiterun," said Ja'ravi, "As for how you got here, I was hoping you could answer some of that. We found you floating in the river this morning."

"We?" replied Brechtje.

"My husband, Do'jhad, and I," explained Ja'ravi, "You were unconscious when we found you. Do you have any idea how you came to be in the river?" Brechtje thought for a moment then shook her head. She sat up slowly, facing the Khajiiti woman.

"I don't remember," she said at length, "All I remember is that it was dark and my back suddenly felt like it was on fire."

"That would probably be because of this," said Ja'ravi solemnly, holding out a dagger. It was a strange implement. The hilt had a scaly appearance and was made of what appeared to be brass or gold and a stylized dragon's head was set into the pommel. The head appeared to be made from carved bone like the blade which was etched with fine weaving patterns. Brechtje took the dagger from her, balancing it carefully on her palms. It was heavy and felt alien in her hands.

"Neither my husband or I have come across a weapon like this before," continued Ja'ravi, "It's not like the usual weapons made here in Skyrim. And those markings, they are very outlandish."

"I've never seen anything like this either," added Brechtje.

"I'm afraid you will have a scar where the blade pierced your skin," said Ja'ravi. Brechtje nodded. She sat for a moment, lost in thought. Where exactly was she? East of Whiterun, she knew that much. But knowing that provided little comfort. It didn't eliminate the fact that she was in a country she barely knew with few memories to help her. What should she do now? Where should she go? She looked at the dagger again. What if the owners of this strange weapon were waiting for her nearby and would pounce the moment she left the camp. Ja'ravi watched her as she sat motionless. She was young, barely more than a cub by Khajiiti standards but, she reminded herself, she was not a Khajiit. They both looked up as a furry head poked in through the tent opening. He was a tall Khajiit with tawny fur and Brechtje guessed him to be Do'jhad.

"How is our visitor?" he asked. He had a friendly open face framed by a mane of shaggy brown hair.

"Awake as you can see," replied Ja'ravi, "But she can't remember how she got to be in the river."

"Hmm, I see," said Do'jhad, "Probably received quite a battering in there. That would explain it. What do you plan to do, young one?"

"I-I don't know," said Brechtje hesitantly, "I don't really know the area at all." Do'jhad thought for a moment.

"Listen, we will take you to Whiterun with us. We have business there anyway," he said, "But that is where we must leave you. You see, you are not of the Moonborn and you would find our way of life strange, young one. You are, what we Khajiit refer to as, a Northling and you must build your life here where you belong."

"But what must I do when I get to Whiterun?" asked Brechtje, "I…I don't even know where to begin."

"You must choose your own path based on your strengths," advised Do'jhad, "What are you good at?"

"I don't know, I, I can do a little magic," said Brechtje, "Restoration and Alteration mostly."

"We've never been allowed within the city's walls so we know little of its economy," explained Ja'ravi, "But we do hear things. We advise you to listen too. You might want to check out the local inn; that's where most news will be heard. Perhaps you will hear something useful."

"When are we going to Whiterun?" asked Brechtje. The walls the Khajiit mentioned, although a hindrance to them would provide safety and comfort to her.

"We leave in about an hour," replied Ja'ravi.

An hour later Brechtje followed the two Khajiit out of the tent and having packed up the camp they set off away from the river bank. The land near the river was muddy in places, dotted with puddles from the last rainfall. Here and there twisted, gnarled shrubs grew up, the only plants able to survive this harsh rugged landscape. The Khajiit spoke little during the trip. Ja'ravi handed Brechtje a handful of blue flowers. "Chew on the petals if the pain starts to return," she instructed, "These will help keep it at bay until you can visit an apothecary."

It was noon before they reached Whiterun. Most of the city was obscured by thick stone walls and only one building, built onto the top of the hill like a dragon perching on a mountaintop, showed above the walls. They stopped at the gate.

"This is where we must leave you," said Do'jhad, "Take this. It should help you get started." He handed her a small purse of gold coins.

"Thank you, Do'jhad, Ja'ravi," smiled Brechtje. At this the two Khajiit began to laugh, leaving Brechtje feeling puzzled, "What is it?" she asked.

"It is nothing, young one," smiled Ja'ravi, "Your Nord accent just finds it strange to pronounce Khajiiti words and names. It's kind of amusing really, like a cub learning its first words." Brechtje wasn't sure how best to respond so she merely laughed. It felt good to laugh. It eased the tension which had been present since she had woken up. She waved goodbye to the Khajiit and turned her gaze on the city. It was vast, stretching as far as she could see in either direction. She could hear water running beneath her feet and guessed there to be a moat nearby. She walked up along the path and soon came upon the source of the gushing noise. A moat flowed beneath a wooden drawbridge and beyond that lay the city's gates. A guard stood on either side, arms folded as they stared out in pure boredom over the plains beyond the walls.

"Halt," one of them said as she approached, "What business have you in Whiterun?"

"I'm here to seek my fortune," replied Brechtje.

"We saw you with those cats earlier," said the other guard, "How do we know you aren't smuggling in moon sugar or skooma?" Brechtje felt indignation flare up in her. Those "cats" had saved her life. She'd heard tales of parts of Skyrim's intolerance towards the catfolk of Elsweyr and now it seemed to be true. She bit her tongue. Now was not the time for hasty actions.

"Search me then," she said boldly.

"Very well," replied the guard. He searched the coin purse Do'jhad had given her and asked her to empty her pockets. As soon as they were satisfied that she wasn't carrying anything illegal they stepped back. "Alright, you may enter," said the first guard, "But we'll be keeping an eye on you."

'Well, so much for first impressions,' Brechtje thought to herself as she stepped through the heavy wooden gates, 'But they surely can't all be like that.'

Whiterun was a vast sprawling city. A wide main street extended from the entrance up to the marketplace. From this street smaller paths branched off twisting and turning through the houses and shops. Brechtje made her way up this central main street. The first building she passed was evidently a blacksmith judging by the smelter out the back and the forge built into the side of the building. It visibly dwarfed the building beyond that. At first glance it looked like a cosy little cottage but closer inspection showed peeling paint and a general look of having fallen into disrepair several years ago. There was a plaque next to the door but the letters on it were too faded to read.

At last they reached the marketplace. As it was the height of the day the market was a bustling centre of activity. A Bosmer hunter stood behind a stall hanging with freshly caught game and cuts of meat. Next to him stood an old Nord woman calling out to passers-by, selling trinkets and jewellery. Another younger Nord woman stood across from them, her stall groaning with fresh fruits and vegetables whose prices she called out in cheerful tones. Beyond them stood a large building with a sign swinging in the faint late autumn breeze. As Brechtje neared it she was able to read the elegant curving lettering which read, 'The Bannered Mare.' This must be the inn the Khajiit had referred to.

As she opened the door, the warm slightly musty air wafted around her, a welcome sensation after the chill wind which blew through the marketplace and along the streets. The interior was warm and welcoming. Most activity was centred around the fire pit situated in the centre of the room. A bard played his lute near the far wall, next to a Nord woman in full armour who sat with a tankard in her hand. Another woman clad in a blue dress sat at one of the tables, a half-eaten sweetroll on the plate before her and two men sat by the fire, discussing something in low gravelly voices. Brechtje stood in the doorway for a moment before making her way over to the counter.

The woman behind the counter looked up when she spotted her. She was tall with auburn hair and hazel eyes. She had a careworn face and wore a deep orange dress which looked a little loose at the seams here and there.

"Well, looks like we have yet another new face in town," she observed, "Seems there have been more and more recently. Anyway, what can I get you?"

"Umm, actually I was looking for work," replied Brechtje, "I only arrived here today, you see. Do you know anywhere I might look?"

"Well, depends on what sort of work you were looking for," said the woman, leaning on the counter.

"Anything really," Brechtje smiled sheepishly, "I need the coin."

"Well, at least you're trying to work for it fairly, unlike some," said the woman, glancing over at a Redguard man in ragged robes who was slumped over a table, snoring loudly, "I could actually use someone to make a delivery for me. It's still business hours so I can't leave the inn. Would you be willing to make the delivery?"

"Where would I be delivering to?" asked Brechtje.

"The place you're looking for is Arcadia's cauldron," replied the woman, "It's just next door actually. Just tell Arcadia, she's the woman who runs it, that you've got Hulda's delivery. Would you do that for me?"

"Sure," said Brechtje. She hadn't expected to find any sort of work this quickly and it was a pleasant surprise. Hulda handed her two small wooden boxes. One contained several pine thrush eggs while the other contained bunches of frost mirriam.

"We've been using these in our recipes," explained Hulda, "But Arcadia informed me that she could make equal use of them in various potions. I don't claim to understand much about her field but she's good with herbal remedies. Anyway, there's a few septims in it for you so hurry back."

Brechtje left the inn, carrying the two boxes balanced one on top of the other. She made her way down the steps and crossed the marketplace to another large building with the apothecary's sign hanging out front. The interior held many alchemical ingredients on display. Bunches of elves ear and braids of garlic hung from the ceiling while many potions and powders dotted the shelves and displays. Other raw ingredients stood on the alchemy table in the corner, ready to be refined into purer forms for use in potions. A woman she guessed to be Arcadia stood behind the encounter. She was an Imperial with a visibly lined face, her dark brown hair pulled back behind her ears.

"Hello, traveller, here to purchase a cure all or just browsing for ingredients?" she enquired.

"Hello, are you Arcadia?" asked Brechtje.

"I am, yes," replied Arcadia, "And who wants to know?"

"I'm Brechtje, I've come with a delivery from Hulda," explained Brechtje, indicating the boxes.

"Ahh, good, the frost mirriam and pine thrush eggs no doubt," replied Arcadia, "I'll be able to make some fine pick me ups and potions to stave off the cold with these. Are you new to Whiterun? I don't believe we've met."

"New to Skyrim actually," said Brechtje, "I just got here today."

"Well, it's always good to meet a new face," replied Arcadia, "Far from home?"

"Yeah," said Brechtje, "Quite far, yes."

"In any case, if you need potions and ingredients, you know where to find me," replied Arcadia.

"Thanks," smiled Brechtje, "Anyway, I'd better get back to Hulda." She said goodbye to Arcadia before leaving the apothecary, heading back to the Bannered Mare. Hulda was waiting for her behind the counter.

"Thanks, this will save me from having to drop them round later," she said, dropping a few coins into Brechtje's hand, "Actually, if you're still looking for work I might have some more for you. And if you'll do this for me I'll let you stay at the inn free of charge tonight."

As she said this the door opened and a tall Imperial woman wearing a blacksmith's apron walked in. She had a steel mace belted at her hip and wore her hair back in a ponytail.

"Ahh, just in time. Adrianne," said Hulda, "Didn't you tell me you were shorthanded down at the forge?"

"Yes, that's right. What, did you find me some help?" asked Adrianne.

"Perhaps, this is, sorry, what's your name?" asked Hulda.

"Brechtje," replied Brechtje.

"This is Brechtje, a newcomer. Maybe she could help out. Brechtje, how are you at a forge?" asked Hulda.

"Umm, I've had a little practice," replied Brechtje, "I know how to make small weapons and basic armour."

"Well, that should be good enough for what I need," said Adrianne. She was a formidable woman and Brechtje didn't know whether to be glad at the opportunity of more work and therefore more coin or intimidated, "Right now I can't afford to be picky," she continued, "Come with me, I'll show you how to work the forge."


End file.
